


When Do You Let the Animals Out?

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: Supernatural, Wolverine (2009), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Banff National Park, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Temperature Play, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-01
Updated: 2009-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean stumbles into Logan's campsite in Banff National Park. Logan gets territorial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Do You Let the Animals Out?

**Author's Note:**

> Postage stamp for 2009 Kink Bingo challenge, prompts drugs/alcohol, temperature play, RP/AU (authority figures) &amp; watersports. Also contains messy rough outdoor sex &amp; some fetishizing of a) motor vehicles and b) the Canadian Rockies.

"Spot's taken," Logan said without looking up when the drunk stumbled into his campsite. He opened another accordion fold of the map on which he was reviewing the next day's planned route.

"Whoops," the intruder apologized. "I didn't realize there were more sites back here."

His voice was deep, hoarse. American vowels. He smelled young, healthy, perfumed with dust, sweat, woodsmoke and rye whiskey. Logan cast him a sidelong glance. "You know open alcohol's not allowed inside national parks."

"Who're you, the park ranger?"

"Hardly," he said, picking up the beer bottle next to his bent knee and bringing it to his lips. "I was offering to help you hide the evidence."

The kid grinned and Logan took a long swallow, eying him head to foot. Not bad at all; looks to be in his mid-twenties, handsome face, great body. Dressed in jeans, flannel jacket and combat boots, good outdoor camouflage back in the '70s before all this zip-off, moisture-wicking, micro-fibre everything people were supposed to buy now in order to 'simplify'. He was pretty sure the kid was checking him out too, if the spike of adrenalin in his chemical cocktail or the way he shifted his stance like he was showing off meant anything. He put the bottle down when he reached the gritty dregs.

"I'd be happy to share but unfortunately, that evidence is already hidden." He pulled an empty mickey from his inside jacket pocket to demonstrate. He tilted his head, frowning at Logan's face, the sunglasses tucked into his collar, then spotted the Triumph 3HW behind him. "Have we met before? I'm sure I—you were at the park gate when I checked in."

"Yeah," Logan said, thinking back. He remembered seeing the kid leaning across the dash of a classic Chev to clip a visitors pass to the rearview while he rooted through the saddlebag for his own pass. "Impala, right?"

"My baby," he grinned. "That's a really nice bike, can I . . .?"

"Sure." Logan unfolded his legs and stepped down from the table to follow him over to the bike. He ignored the kid's surprised grunt at how short he was.

"Beautiful," he skimmed his palms over the bike's body, curled loose fists around the handlebars. "How does she run?"

"Purrs like a mountain lion. Ride's smooth as that river over there." He nodded to the Bow, audible forty metres distant through lodgepole pines like infantrymen staggering drunkenly out of formation.

The kid looked up, frowning. "That river's full of rapids."

"Not along this stretch."

That grin again, and an open palm extended overhand. "Name's Dean Winchester."

"Logan." His grip was firm, warm, and he squeezed a little when Logan didn't immediately withdraw. Not a challenge—an invitation? He squeezed back, accepting. "Beer?"

"Thanks."

They walked back to the table, to the plastic cooler on the bench and Logan distributed the last two lonely soldiers. The labels were soaked and peeling after swimming in the mostly-melted ice bath. His prick hardened just watching the kid, Dean, press the cold bottle against his neck, head tilted sideways and back to expose the length of his throat and the icy water trickling under his collar. Dean, watching Logan's face from the corner of one half-lidded eye, chuckled and winked. Smug little tease; good thing he was flirting with intent.

Logan popped the cap of his bottle with his knife—didn't want to scare him off now by flashing claws—then passed it handle-first so Dean could open his. Their hands brushed and lingered again when he handed the knife back. The blade dropped and stuck in a split in the wooden picnic table as Logan's hand slipped to clutch Dean's forearm, tugging him off balance, spinning and pinning him with an arm across the chest, his back to Logan's front.

With a handful of dwindling ice from the cooler behind him, Logan lifted the hem of Dean's jacket and shirt. He slicked the ice between their bodies, over the tops of his hipbones and up his spine. Dean squirmed, grinding his thigh against Logan's hard-on. He freed one hand enough to raise the bottle to his lips, and Logan had a perfect view of the angle of his jaw and the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he poured the beer into his mouth, gulping it down like he was dying of thirst. He grunted at the sight and stink of beer running down his chin and dripping onto his chest and Logan's sleeve, the tingle of the ice slivers disappearing against his burning back.

Dean made to throw the bottle into the woods but Logan stepped out from behind him, blocking his arm. "No littering."

He laughed, blinking shiny eyes. "Are you sure you're not a ranger?"

"Why?" Logan asked, pressing back into his space. "Do you want me to be?"

"Maybe," he cocks his head, smirking. "What is that on your hats, that logo thing? Is it like a pork chop, or an Elvis wig? What's going on there?"

"It's a beaver."

Dean snorted, "is it sick?"

Logan rolled his eyes and started to step back, but Dean followed him, clearly enjoying the game.

"Where can I go to taste a glacier? How do you get the lakes so blue? At what altitude does an elk become a moose?" He lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes, glancing around conspiratorially. "What time do you let the animals out?"

"Now," Logan growled and slammed him up against a skinny tree, which rattled with the force. He pinned his arms above his head, probably getting sap all over his jacket, and mashed their mouths together. He tasted beer, rye, beef jerky and a little blood as he stretched up to delve the kid's mouth with his tongue.

Dean shoved at his shoulders, strong now that he finally bothered to fight, and surprising Logan enough that he actually staggered back. They danced together back to the table, hands roving over shoulders, asses and up under shirts. He tried to lift Logan onto the table, grunting in frustration when he didn't budge, but Logan took the hint and hopped up on his own, feeling the weathered wood creak and bow. His mouth found Logan's again, hungry, and he started clawing at his belt but Logan stopped his hands.

"Stop," he said, panting and grimacing at the way this position aggravated the pressure in his gut, "before this goes any further . . . I really need to take a piss."

Dean nodded and let him off the table, then startled him by saying "Wait!" as soon as he'd staggered over to a tree and wrestled his fly open. "Seems a shame to waste it."

"Excuse me?" Logan looked over his shoulder to find Dean bare-chested, loosening the laces on his boots just enough to kick them off before shucking out of his jeans.

"Give it to me," Dean said. He dropped to his knees, tossed away a rock that jabbed him then looked up expectantly. "Piss on me."

"Seriously?" Logan frowned. He hadn't done that since, jeez. It must have been his last visit to the Boot Camp in San Francisco, back in the early eighties.

"I want your piss," Dean said as Logan walked back over, eyes on the uncut cock in his hand, hanging heavy between the undone buttons of his fly. "Come on, Ranger Smith. Show all those other bears whose park this is."

Logan smirked. He made the kid wait, playing with himself impatiently, until he'd removed his own clothes and piled them next to the cooler. Finally he planted his bare feet in the ruddy soil in front of Dean, and let go.

He aimed the stream at the centre of Dean's chest, but the way the kid shuddered and jumped as soon as the first drop hit his skin it didn't take long for him to get splattered all over. He moaned low as the piss ran hot and pungent down his belly, slicking the fist he was using to pump his cock, his other fist spasming on air at his side, meandering rivers down his muscular thighs to puddle around his knees. Logan stepped closer, aimed higher, and caught Dean across his open-mouthed, gasping face. He sputtered, darting out his tongue to catch more of Logan's wine.

Logan pissed himself empty, then dropped to his own knees in the warm mud. He leaned in to lick Dean's wet, smooth chest, bit savagely at a nipple and clawed at his back while the kid grunted and spent on his hip.

He laid Dean, now pliant and unresisting as a rag doll, down on the damp ground, barking a laugh at his goofy smile and the pine needles sticking to his dirt-streaked legs. He pressed his body down onto Dean's, wetting the hair on his torso and legs with the heady perfume of his own piss, before straddling Dean's waist and jerking off onto his chest. He came with a snarl, then dropped heavily onto his back beside Dean, staring up at northern stars beyond the dizzy swoon of the trees. He didn't notice it getting dark.

"Thank you," Dean said quietly after a few minutes.

Logan swallowed, hoping things weren't about to get maudlin. "No problem."

"Can I put that on the visitors' center survey? 'Tell us about your experience in our national park'?"

"No, this requires a special form."

Dean laughed, then sucked a deep breath through his nose. "I'm afraid to put my clothes back on over this mess."

Logan pushed himself up onto an elbow. "You seemed to like the cold before—wanna go splash in the river?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at the suggestion and that was enough to set Logan off running, Dean chasing behind him, bounding naked through the pines, over the narrow gravel bank and straight up to his ass in the silty Bow.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been to Banff in a few years and did only superficial research into relevant Parks Canada regulations, so there may be some factual errors (I know they've redone the beaver logo so it's more obvious now). Dean's smart-assery comes from actual park visitors' questions and comments collected, published and mocked by Michael Kerr in _When Do You Let the Animals Out? A Field Guide to Rocky Mountain Humour_ (1998; Fifth House Books).


End file.
